


Blue on blue

by Lunasong365



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Depression, Gen, Lighthouse, Moominmamma's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25087873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365
Summary: ‘Moominmamma, do you really think Moominpappa knows what he’s doing?’ Little My had asked while they were taking a breather on the verandah at Moominhouse after carrying crates of belongings down the stairs.‘Of course he does, my dear,’ Moominmamma had automatically responded as they’d watched him and Moomintroll busily going back and forth with the wheelbarrow and cart, hauling luggage down to the jetty.‘I don’t think he does. He doesn’t know at all.’
Relationships: Muminmamman | Moominmamma/Muminpappan | Moominpappa
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Blue on blue

_I wonder what it is that Moominmamma cares about. –Snufkin_

[ ](https://imgur.com/9K5KrwI)

Mamma picked her way through the scrubby brush anchored in the rocks on her way to the desolate point on the west side of the island. She’d brought a basket with her, in the hitherto futile hope there might be flowers or berries or seashells to collect.

The only flowers that grew on this windswept barren were the tiny white ones that huddled in the crevices and lichens between the rocks. Mamma knelt down to look at them as they shivered in the breeze. ‘Poor little dears,’ she thought. ‘They’ll soon be turned to dust and blow away with the wind, but yet they’ve found a way to thrive out here. I wish I knew what to do. It’s autumn, and there is absolutely nothing to make jam with on this island.’

Mamma settled herself on a flat rock overlooking the sea. Further down the point, she could see the fisherman’s house anchored above the scree into the overhang of the bluff. She caught a glimpse of a small red object skipping through the rocks, winding its way down the path to the rounded hut. ‘Little My,’ Mamma thought fondly. ‘This island has broken everyone except her.’

When they’d first come to the island, Mamma had sent Moomintroll out to find the fisherman and send her compliments, hoping that, despite first impressions the previous night, he might prove to be pleasant company. But the fisherman had wanted nothing to do with them. Mamma was disappointed – entertaining _anyone_ would have provided a welcome respite from the monotonous sameness of days and given her a purpose – something Pappa seemed all too determined to keep from her.

Of course, Little My had found a way to use his reclusiveness for _her_ entertainment.

[](https://imgur.com/uEPyNLS)

Mamma stared out toward the horizon, where the hazy autumn air caused the ocean and sky to meld seamlessly together. ‘How easy it would be for something to disappear,’ she mused. ‘To fade into the background, like blue on blue.’ She watched the waves roll in, wave upon wave, surging against the rampart of driftwood and seaweed on the shores of the island. It was hypnotic. Even to the end of the world, the waves would still be breaking against this island, a stubborn, immovable bastion against change.

Mamma was tired. Tired of doing nothing. Tired of doing everything. Tired of always being dependable. Tired of not being able to depend on anyone. Tired of being overlooked. Tired of always overlooking her husband’s follies. It was the kind of tired that was bone-crushing and soul-stealing. Moominmamma continued to gaze at the horizon, feeling her heart wrench at what she heard calling from over the blue. Impulsively, she tossed her useless basket over the cliff and watched the surf voraciously tear it apart.

For some odd reason, it was cathartic.

After her dangerous youth, she’d been surprised to find how much domestic life suited her. She adored being married. She loved cooking and cleaning and sewing and washing. Her husband doted on her, giving her the freedom to do anything she liked with the house he had built. She couldn’t wait to be a mother and knit little booties for her own baby troll.

It was when she was carrying Moomintroll that she’d discovered Moominpappa had been carrying on with his old friend Joxter under their own roof. She hadn’t say a word, devastated that he’d felt drawn to something so foreign to her own gentle love language of companionship, cooking, and unconditional loyalty. She’d quietly moved into the east bedroom and channeled her nurturing instincts into bringing up her son and caring for every lost soul that ended up on their verandah. Moominmamma’s kindness and hospitality (and her pancakes) became renowned throughout Moominvalley.

Pappa continued to treat her like a queen, but had never abandoned the wandering ways which he claimed were intrinsic to his nature. ‘Adventures,’ he called them, as time and time again he ‘ran away with the Hattifatteners.’ But he had always come back. She wryly recalled the year she and the children had cut every flower in the birthday garden they’d planted for her to decorate Moominhouse for Pappa’s return. How she wished she had even a sprig of those colorful flowers now! She’d brought a single rose-bush from the garden tucked next to the verandah with her to the island. But Pappa had scoffed.

‘I don’t know why you thought that would thrive here!’ he’d chided as she carefully lifted the box of earth that cradled her rose-bush out of the boat. ‘It’s simply not the right environment for it! It's not going to survive. You should have asked me first. Don’t be afraid to ask me anything you don’t understand. You need to let me take care of you!’

Mamma hated to admit it, but Pappa had been right about the rose-bush. A few weeks ago, it had surrendered its last lonely leaf to the rocky, saline soil. Even so, she’d refused to cut the rose-bush’s thorny brown branches away, hoping beyond hope that its roots were still alive. Now every time she stepped out the lighthouse door, it was a prickly, painful reminder of someplace and someone she no longer was.

Recently, Moominmamma had taken to sleeping late into the morning. For someone who’d always been cheerfully up before dawn, cooking breakfast and boiling water for coffee and the day’s washing, it was a peculiar change. But it had been getting harder and harder to find the motivation to get out of bed. She’d been having dreams – about a wandering small boy who called for her by name. About Hattifatteners overrunning the island and taking her away. About sea monsters and storms and deep black pits with no bottom. About stealing away in the dark of the night on the _Adventure_ and finding her own way home.

Regretfully, she’d never learned to sail. She’d always let Pappa handle the boat. It was something he did very well, and she didn’t want to jeopardize his pride.

The work involved in cleaning the lighthouse living quarters had made her happy for a while, but now everything was tidy. Little My had even helped by building a lift for bringing pails of water upstairs from the rain barrel. After sweeping the last errant dust-doggie under a bed, Moominmamma had sat at the table and run her paw over the thousands of tiny scratches marked into its surface; each representing a day that their predecessor had spent in the lighthouse. Mamma had never been very good at math and couldn’t calculate by the hash clusters how many days it had been, but it seemed like a very long time. What had happened to the keeper? Brooding, Mamma had gotten up and looked out each of the four windows in turn. Nothing but sea. The vast expanse of the sea and some gulls and swallows. Each window had the same view. There was nothing to distinguish north from south, east from west, except the passage of the sun across the sky creating a compass point from the shadow of the lighthouse. And with winter coming, Mamma suspected the sun would leave the island before she did.

She’d absentmindedly picked up an indelible pencil abandoned on the sill, and started doodling a flower on the wall.

That flower had blossomed into another and extended into a vine, and soon the wall was being transformed into the beautiful valley she missed so much. With some leftover paint she’d found in the attic, she started adding color to bring the valley to life. There were apple trees with both blooms and fruit, and rose-bushes edged with little white seashells. She painted the lilac bushes and the well and the cellar door. She painted the little bird that heralded spring down by the bridge where Snufkin liked to camp. There were flowers of every color, tended by bees and butterflies.

There was a conspicuous absence of rocks.

As she painted the worn blue siding of Moominhouse, she felt drawn to touch it. To grasp the familiar white railing of the verandah and peep through the little blue and red window on the door before going inside the place that was her _home._

When she’d found out that Joxter was Snufkin’s father – an important detail Pappa had conveniently forgotten to tell _everyone_ – it had taken a full winter’s sleep for her to come to some sort of peace about it. Even though she hadn’t known herself, she’d felt terribly culpable that something that _defining_ had been kept carelessly by Moominpappa from the young mumrik of whom she was so fond. Had it been because of her long-ago silent grudge against Joxter? She was well aware of the unspoken feelings the wanderer had for her son, and wished for both their sakes that Moomintroll would one day return them unequivocally, the way she’d once felt for his father. In the days before she’d felt the need to periodically escape to the bottom of the back garden at Moominhouse and scream in frustration.

But here on the island, Moomintroll had seemingly forgotten all about Snufkin.

Moomintroll was becoming more and more moody each day. He already seemed distanced from the thoughtful and devoted son who’d given her the tiny silver horseshoe he’d found on the beach their first week here. She’d hung it on a nail above the door, hoping it might bring some luck. But luck and good humor seemed to be qualities of which they’d all run short as the weeks started adding into months. Pappa was surly because he couldn’t get the lighthouse lamp lit – his entire purpose for being on the island. Moomintroll spent all his days outside, and Mamma knew he’d been taking the hurricane lamp and sneaking out at night as well. Mamma was aware that she herself had been wallowing in melancholy and a lack of purpose. Nothing here was as it should be. When Moomintroll had asked for the horseshoe back, his mother hadn’t pried. Mamma had always said that it was perfectly fine for someone to have a secret.

She was beginning to wonder how long she could keep hers.

‘Moominmamma, do you really think Moominpappa knows what he’s doing?’ Little My had asked while they were taking a breather on the verandah at Moominhouse after carrying crates of belongings down the stairs.

‘Of course he does, my dear,’ Moominmamma had automatically responded as they’d watched him and Moomintroll busily going back and forth with the wheelbarrow and cart, hauling luggage down to the jetty.

‘I don’t think he does. He doesn’t know at all.’

Little My was the only one untouched by the malaise that had seemingly cursed the other residents of the lighthouse. She seemed to know every square _kyynärä_ of the island, took delight in aggravating the fisherman, and was as acerbic as ever in her comments. The independent mymble seemed entertained by _all_ their foibles on this isolated sliver of rock.

‘Eugh, it smells like Snufkin in here.’ Little My had tried to get a rise out of Moomintroll as she’d plunked herself down next to him for supper.

It hadn’t worked. Moomintroll had continued absent-mindedly stirring his fish-soup, scooping up spoonfuls and watching them plop back into the bowl. Mamma noticed he hadn’t yet eaten a bite. Her son was acting as if he’d rather be anywhere than enjoying a wholesome meal around the table with his family. She supposed this was normal for a teen-aged moomin, but that didn’t mean it didn’t bother her – just a tiny bit.

Pappa had recently been channeling his energy into fishing, and, as always when he was sparked by a new whim, his enthusiasm seemed boundless. There were currently fish _everywhere_ in the small round room upstairs in the lighthouse where they all resided. The room Moominmamma had worked so hard to make clean and cozy had devolved into something like a piscine nightmare out of the _Kalevala._ The lidless staring eyes of dead fish, their mouths gaped wide with silent screams of doom, glared from every flat surface at the family around the table, daring them to feel at peace among those who’d been cruelly snatched from their element. Moominmamma had opened the windows, but the still night air had done little to clear the overwhelming stench of pike, eel, and perch.

Grabbing the hurricane lamp from the table, Moomin announced, ‘I’m going down to the beach. I need some fresh air.’ He gave a sullen glance around the room, muttering darkly, with his paw clenched around something. The door shut behind him with an unnecessary bang. The family could hear the creaking and groaning the rickety staircase made as he stomped his way down into the darkening October night. Mamma and Little My exchanged glances, and My shrugged.

‘Now then,’ Pappa said jovially, seemingly tone-deaf to the atmosphere in the room, ‘perhaps you ladies would like to get to work salting, pickling, and preserving this bountiful harvest from the deep! Mamma, I’ll be right back with another crate of your canning jars!’

The look Moominmamma gave him was unfathomable. ‘I’ve already filled every jar I have, dearest. We have quite enough fish.’

Pappa chortled in satisfaction. ‘The measure of a man is in how well he provides for his family. I always was a bit of an overachiever. With me around, this family will want for nothing.’ He leaned forward on his elbows, waggling his index finger in the air. ‘I can tell you this,’ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘I’m giving that so-called fisherman a run for the title!’

He got up from the table. ‘Well, you know what they say. Luck in one thing leads to luck in another.’

‘Who’s ‘they’?’ interrupted Little My.

Moominpappa ignored her as he continued. ‘I do believe my luck in fishing will carry over tonight into lighting the lamp. It might even get foggy tonight. Please excuse me. Destiny awaits me at the very tip of this alabaster tower!’ Plonking on his lighthouse keeper’s floppy hat, he climbed the iron ladder into the lamp-room and closed the trap door behind him.

Little My got up too. ‘I think _I’ll_ go down to the beach.’ When Moominmamma raised an eyebrow, she added quickly, ‘But not the same one as Moomin.’ Stealing a crisp-bread from the untouched basket on the table, Little My quickly slipped out the door. Mamma could hear the whir of pulley-on-rope as My lowered herself in the bucket down the middle of the winding staircase that encircled the interior of the tower.

Mamma waited patiently, dozing with her nose in her paws. Waiting patiently on Moominpappa was something _she'd_ learned to do well. After the swearing upstairs had faded into snores, she got up with a sigh and started collecting the fish and tossing them by the apronful out the lighthouse windows. With luck, the gulls would eat them at first light before her husband noticed what was gone.

She stripped off her ruined apron, cutting the strings with her filleting knife to free herself. She would never be able to wear it again, as stained as it was by fish guts. She tossed it into the fireplace and watched it burn. The flames flickered and danced, reminding her of cheery nights around the fireplace at Moominhouse.

Prying open the can of blue tint, she started to paint.

[](https://imgur.com/mKuy737)

_Mamma’s vanished. She was so lonely, she just disappeared. –Moomintroll_

**Author's Note:**

> All illustrations are by Tove Jansson for 'Moominpappa at Sea' with slight edits by me.  
> Snufkin's quote is from 'Moominvalley in November.'  
> Moomintroll's quote is from 'Moominpappa at Sea.'  
> 'Dust-doggie' is adapted from the Finnish for dust-ball, _villakoira_.  
> A _kyynärä_ is a former Finnish unit of measure equivalent to about 46 cm today.  
> The _Kalevala_ is a collection of Karelian and Finnish oral folklore and mythology.


End file.
